


Festive

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-17
Updated: 2007-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Chuck and Pete's</i> was busy all year round, drawing in passing trade and faithful locals in equal measure--enticing them in with the smell of Pete's vanilla specials, with the way Chuck seemed to know everyone's name, remember their favourite drink and serve it up to them with a friendly grin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Festive

**Author's Note:**

> For Jarsy.

_Chuck and Pete's_ was busy all year round, drawing in passing trade and faithful locals in equal measure—enticing them in with the smell of Pete's vanilla specials, with the way Chuck seemed to know everyone's name, remember their favourite drink and serve it up to them with a friendly grin. In the weeks before Christmas, though, the queue inevitably stretched to the door and even beyond, a solid line of bundled-up, chattering people alight with the anticipation of the holidays, of cinnamon lattes and fresh, warm pastries.

Rodney hated it; hated _them_. Soccer moms with their arms already laden down with shopping bags meant that he was delayed in the mornings, when all he wanted was _coffeecoffeecoffee_ before he headed into the office. Children high on sugar who ran around without any supervision, their shouts audible even over the buzz of background conversation, and who seemed to positively delight in head-butting Rodney's stomach. Chattering students who colonised the worn-soft leather couches in the back of the shop for the entire afternoon, forcing Rodney and Ronon and Teyla to abandon their usual seats for ones in the front window. The chairs there were nowhere near as comfortable, wooden and rickety and pressed up against glass turned cold and clammy with condensation.

What was even worse was that Chuck and Pete liked to encourage this kind of behaviour for the entire month of December: playing awful Christmas songs non-stop, donning elf ears and Santa hats, and twining greenery around every exposed beam in the place. Rodney told them exactly what he thought of it all with each cup of coffee he ordered, but Chuck never seemed to actually pay attention to his (entirely justified!) complaints, just smiled all the wider and turned up the music on the stereo system.

"Why do I keep coming here?" Rodney said to Ronon one afternoon the week before Christmas, when it was already dark outside and the bite in the air promised snow; behind the counter, Pete was making up an order of hot chocolates, the bell on his hat jingling in time to the strains of the Hallelujah chorus. "The coffee isn't _that_ good. Am I a masochist? I don't _feel_ like a masochist. I think those sensitivity seminars of Elizabeth's have done something to my brain."

Ronon shrugged, big shoulders shifting underneath the heavy cloth of his business suit. "I think it's festive," he said, grinning when Chuck rewarded his loyalty with an extra stick of cinnamon in his latte.

"Festive," Rodney said flatly. "Festive. Seriously?" Ronon just quirked an eyebrow, so Rodney sighed and said, "Fine, fine, whatever. You enjoy your tidings of comfort and caffeine, I am going home to get this presentation done before Teyla puts our heads on spikes. See you tomorrow morning?"

"Sure," Ronon said, and headed off to commandeer a table. Rodney was right at the door when he remembered that he had to remind Ronon about some papers they'd need for tomorrow, turned to shout across the room at him, and ended up colliding heavily with the guy coming in the door.

"Oh, shi— Crap, sorry, I'm sorry," Rodney said, just as the other guy said, "Hey, sorry about that." He stooped to pick up Rodney's briefcase for him, giving Rodney a glancing impression of messy dark hair; strong shoulders under a dark grey sweater; long, slim fingers; a bright red scarf. He handed the briefcase back to Rodney with a smile that lingered in the corners of his mouth, lit up his eyes; and Rodney was just about to blink at him and make his excuses and hurry out into the cold dark of the December afternoon when he heard someone calling his name from the counter.

"What, _what_?" he snapped over at Chuck, whose be-hatted head was poking up from behind the cash register.

Chuck pointed up above Rodney's head. "Merry Christmas, Dr McKay," he said, with a grin that was far too wicked to be caused by anything good. Rodney looked up warily, and just about managed not to flinch when he saw the large sprig of mistletoe suspended from the ceiling.

"Uh," he said intelligently, looking back down at the other man—who strangely seemed more amused than put out by the prospect of being pressurised by bizarre social customs into kissing a stranger in full of a coffee house full of strangers and a socially maladjusted coffee-serving elf who would absolutely _pay_ as soon as Rodney could work out some system to—and had they been standing that close before now?—and was he—and gosh, Rodney thought vaguely, his mouth was really very pretty.

"I'm John, by the way," the other guy said conversationally, reaching out to take Rodney's briefcase from his unresisting hand and set it down on the floor.

"Well that, that's nice," Rodney said, feeling his chin go up instinctively, defensively, "But why do you feel the need to—"

John rolled his eyes, just a little. "Generally, I like to know the name of the person I'm kissing before I kiss them," he explained in a tone of exaggerated patience.

"Oh," Rodney blinked, "I'm—" And then John did kiss him, a dry and chaste brush of lips at first, a scrape of stubble against Rodney's jaw that slowly turned into something altogether different: warm, wet mouth and the curl of his tongue against Rodney's; the length of a lean body pressed up against him; the soft scratch of John's sweater against Rodney's palm when he curled his hand around one of John's biceps. Dimly, through the pounding rush of his own pulse, Rodney could hear smattered applause break out in the room, and a resounding wolf whistle which could only have come from Ronon; he could hear John's breathing come quicker.

"Festive," Rodney whispered, dazedly, when they finally broke away; he couldn't stop his tongue from darting out to lick at his lower lip.

"Pleased to meet you," John said, eyebrows quirking up and grinning, and he leaned in again.


End file.
